Hobbs, N.M. lies in the center of America's oil and gas production country. I had been working in Clovis for another newspaper when Robert Summers, publisher of the Hobbs Daily News-Sun invited me to join his editorial staff as assistant city editor.
Summers was a pleasant, mild-mannered man who owned a string of horses that he raced at Ruidoso Downs and Sunland Park in El Paso, TX. He turned out to be a gentleman and one of the most generous publishers it has ever been my pleasure to work for.
The town had a population of about 25,000 people. You could detect the smell of oil and gas wells that were located just east of Hobbs. I asked a restaurant manager if the odor bothered him and he smiled.
'Son, that's the smell of money,' he said.
Shortly after I moved to Hobbs, I met the town bookie. His name was Al. He was short, gray-haired and drove a new Cadillac. He would show up punctually three times a week at my newspaper to either deliver or collect money from the employees that bet on the horses. Our attractive receptionist who greeted him with a friendly smile was the daughter of the police chief.
Racing forms were available at newsstands around the community and I joined the other employees in betting on the horses. I had worked out a system of betting on horses that had improved their positions in their last three or four races. I would bet twice as much to place as I would to win and three times as much to show. My wagers won me more money than I lost and Al would compliment me as he paid off my bet.
Summers was a friendly publisher who took a personal interest in his staff. He saw us as people rather than just as employees and would often visit the editorial department to find out how we were doing. He was proud of his stable of quarterhorses and sometimes would give us a tip about a horse that had been training well with good workouts.
Just before Christmas he came to our department with a proposal. He was planning on flying down to Sunland Park the following Saturday and wanted to know if anybody cared to join him in his private aircraft. I volunteered as did three other reporters.
Summers smiled. 'Be at the municipal airport at 7 a.m.,' he said. He saluted us and left.
On Friday I picked up a copy of the Daily Racing Form and spent the evening doping out the horses. I made my selections and fell into a deep sleep despite the smell of petroleum from the chugging oil wells outside the city limits.
In the morning I drove to the airport. The sky was heavy with clouds and lightning crackled through the darkness. Summers was already there with his pilot checking on the plane. A light rain began falling as we stepped aboard the single-engine aircraft.
The pilot's name was Bob Kendricks. As the engine warmed up, he warned us that the flight could be a little bumpy.
I knew we had to fly over the Guadalupe Mountains and Signal Peak, a prominent mountain where a light airplane had crashed a month earlier, killing all the people aboard.
With the wind buffeting us, the aircraft made its way onto the runway and then increased speed as we flew into the approaching storm. Kendricks skillfully accomplished the takeoff and we headed south toward El Paso.
The plane jumped around in the air as we flew into the clouds. The rain had increased and slammed against the windshield as lightning crackled all around us.
As the clouds closed in, I realized I could not see to the ends of the wings. I kept thinking of Signal Peak, a towering black mountain that reached high into the sky. The winds and the sound of the engine made it difficult to talk in the interior of the cockpit.
We hit wind shears and would be pitched about violently. Bob kept the aircraft on course. I began praying as rain fiercely pelted our plane.
We flew about 30 minutes. A sudden windshear hit us and we fell hundreds of feet. Then there was a different whine in the engine. I asked Bob what happened.
He turned and smiled, 'We just turned back. I'm not sure if the instruments are correct and I don't want to argue with any mountains.'
When we landed at Hobbs Municipal Airport, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. As I climbed into my car, I knew just one thing. I could sure use a drink.
Author: Geno Lawrenzi Jr.
(Geno Lawrenzi Jr. is an international journalist, magazine author and ghostwriter and poker player who lives in Phoenx, AZ. He has published 2,000 articles in 50 magazines and 125 newspapers. If you want to share a gambling story or book idea with him, send an email to glawrenzi@gmail.com ).
